Mysteries and Magic
by BarefootButtercup
Summary: Muggle-born John Watson is off to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, nervous but excited to experience this new world. He could never guess how the next seven years would change him. PLEASE review - anything (positive or negative) is appreciated!
1. Beginnings

It was John Watson's first day off to Hogwarts, and he felt as turned around and confused as he had ever been. He refused to admit to himself that there might have been a bit of fear mixed in with all those other emotions, but he couldn't help but notice that his hands shook a little unless he kept them clenched tight in his lap. It was a miracle he was on this train at all, he thought, craning his neck to stare at the scenery passing by. There had been an awful traffic jam on the way to King's Cross - he'd never heard his mum curse so fervently - and then there was the issue of getting to the platform.

"Run at the wall?" his mother had asked, shaking her head in awe as a friendly witch skipped through the bricks with her trunk in tow. "But - but can just anyone do it? Do you have to have - er - magic?" She rubbed her hands nervously across the front of her skirt, glancing around the station. "John, dear, maybe you should just go it alone? Just prance on through and find yourself a spot on the train, how about it?" She looked hopefully down at him, and he nodded apprehensively. "Go on," she urged. "You're nearly late!" She folded him into a hug, squeezing tight. "Do be careful, John. And keep in touch," she added, releasing him from her grasp. "We'll see you at Christmas, dear."

"Sure, Mum." He gulped, glancing at the very solid-looking bricks between platforms nine and ten. "Er - goodbye then." He leaned his whole body weight onto his trolley and walked towards the platform. _It's an illusion,_ he told himself. _That girl just walked on through. You can do it. You've got magic, John. _He felt foolish, certain that he would crash into the bricks and send his luggage flying everywhere and that the whole thing would turn out to be one of his sister Harry's pranks. He frowned. Well, she couldn't pick on him anymore. Not while he was at Hogwarts.

He took a few quick steps, squeezing his eyes shut, and when they opened again he was staring at a bustling platform. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was real. It wasn't a prank. There was a train, with _Hogwarts Express _painted on the side plain as day, so presumably the wizard school was real, too. It wasn't a prank; it was really happening.

A broad grin spread across John's face as he jogged towards the train. Around him, families were saying their last goodbyes, mothers calling out last bits of advice, and little siblings pouting as their brothers and sisters climbed aboard. A man turned from helping his daughter up the steps and caught sight of John. "Need a hand, there?" he asked with a smile, and before John could even nod his luggage was hoisted up. "Just you go find a seat," the man advised. "They'll take this up to your room when you get to school." John hopped up onto the stairs, stammering his thanks as the man faded into the crowd.

He found himself a seat in a compartment with two older girls. They glanced up as he entered, then promptly returned to their gossip and giggling. John sat awkwardly in silence by the window, glancing at the girls occasionally and wishing he had brought a book or something. Or that he knew anyone on this train. The train ride passed slowly, broken only by more giggles from his two compartment-mates and one visit from a young blonde witch pushing a cart full of candies and snacks. John had gotten a few, counting out the bizarre coins he had exchanged proper currency for at that goblin bank. He shivered a little, remembering that experience. It was a good thing his mother hadn't been with him on that trip; she was overwhelmed with everything in that Diagon Alley place and had planted herself in front of an ice cream parlor, staring fixedly at a brick wall. John had gotten the distinct feeling that all this magic stuff distressed her, and he wouldn't be surprised if at this very moment she was glad to be rid of him and all these new stresses for a few months.

Thinking of his mother and Harry, kicking back at home and heaving sighs of relief that the ridiculous spell books and cauldron were gone from the living room corner, John reached for one of his snacks and ripped it open angrily. He gave a cry of shock as a frog - a _frog, _made of _chocolate _- hopped out of his hand and across the floor, right out of the compartment. The gossip died down in the other side of the compartment, and he knew both girls were staring at him in disdain, but he could do nothing but stare down at the empty wrapper. Only it wasn't empty. Bracing himself, he pulled out what appeared to be a trading card of some sort. _It's fine._ He flipped the card over, and the slender witch pictured there winked at him with a sly smile. He choked back another noise and stuffed the card deep into the bag which held his brand-new robes. Magic was going to take some getting used to.

And now he sat, shivering in the great stony entrance hall at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His head was spinning. This was a mistake; this _had _to be a mistake. What was he doing here? There were _ghosts _here, for pity's sake. And big hairy men the size of houses, and boats that moved by themselves. And unless he was very much mistaken, he had caught a glimpse of a horse-drawn carriage making its way up to the castle - minus the horse. This whole thing was crazy. Harry had slipped him a drug or something; must have done, to be having this psycho dream.

"Are you nervous?" whispered the girl next to him. John glanced sideways at her. She was tiny - had he seen her on the street he would have put her age closer to eight or nine than eleven - and pale, with huge brown eyes and two pigtails jutting out the sides of her head. "I am," she added, gazing sincerely into John's eyes.

"Me too," John admitted in the same low tones. "Do you know what happens next? Why are we out here, but everyone else is in there?" He nodded to the enormous doors in front of them.

"Oh, we're to be sorted!" she explained, her eyes going somehow even wider. "You must be Muggle-born?" John didn't answer, just gave her a blank stare. "You're not from a magical family, are you?" He shook his head.

"I'm feeling rather lost, to be honest. John Watson, by the way," he added, sticking out his hand. The girl took it; her grip was stronger than John expected for her size.

"Molly Hooper," she said. "And don't be too scared. Hogwarts is going to be great!" And she launched into an explanation of houses and classes and teachers she'd heard about, and Quidditch - John was going to have to do a little more research to know quite what she was talking about there. And then the great doors swung open, and Professor Longbottom, who'd herded all the new students into the entrance hall, was leading them inside. John's mouth dropped open, and his wasn't the only one, looking up at the bewitched ceiling. Molly Hooper's face was frozen in a huge excited smile, and she bounced along next to him, peering around and trying to see over the taller students' shoulders.

The Sorting seemed to go by in a flash. Every first-year was cheered by their new house. John soon gave up trying to remember any of their names; he couldn't think straight for his nerves. Molly Hooper was put in Ravenclaw about half a second after the talking hat touched her head, and she flat-out ran to the table decked in blue and silver. John's name was one of the last - _W's lot, _as his mother would say - and then it was his turn. It was rather anticlimactic, really. He sat on the stool in silence for a few seconds, just long enough to wonder if this had all been a mistake, if the hat was trying to figure out a way to announce that _this _boy wasn't magic at all, when it cried out "HUFFLEPUFF" in a voice that made John's ears ring. He hopped off the stool and walked rather quickly to the black and gold table, where suddenly everyone was on their feet cheering for _him._ He couldn't help grinning as his new house-mates pounded him on the back and shouted welcomes and congratulations in his ear. He felt at home.

John found a few friends in Hufflepuff, but he had never been one to need a large group of friends, and he found himself hanging around Molly Hooper quite a bit. She was so friendly that the first few times John invited her into his common room to do Herbology homework - the Hufflepuffs had the best couches, in his and Molly's opinions - his fellow Hufflepuffs had wondered aloud why she was in Ravenclaw instead of their house. Molly just blushed and shrugged,.but John could tell instantly that Molly belonged in blue and silver. She was obsessive with her work, checking and rechecking every sentence, tracing over her handwriting and confirming every fact in two books before she would even think of putting quill to parchment.

He and Molly always tried to pair up in Herbology. It was one of her favorite subjects - she would never pick just one - and he found to his surprise that he enjoyed it as well. "It will help me later, I hope," she told him one day as she repotted some awful, tentacled plant, a frown of concentration pasted on her face. "I want to work at St. Mungo's. I think it would be fascinating."

"St. Mungo's?" asked John, disengaging a tentacle from his wrist with an unpleasant sucking noise. He shoved the plant into its new pot.

"More gently, please, John," Professor Longbottom instructed, coming up beside him and repositioning the plant. He stroked one of its flailing tentacles with a fingertip, and it curled obediently around itself and went still. "Good work, you two," he added before moving on.

"St. Mungo's is a hospital," Molly explained. "A famous one. I can't imagine how strange it must be for you, not knowing all that sort of thing." Before John could answer, she continued. "I just think it would be wonderful, getting to work with people, find out _how_ they work. You know. I wish Hogwarts offered more specific classes like that."

"My mum always wanted me to go to med school," John told her. "I never thought much about it, I guess. I mean, it's a long way off, isn't it? But I can see how it'd be interesting."

"Med school," she said dreamily. "Oh, that would be fun." She tried stroking a tentacle like Professor Longbottom had done, and it snarled around her finger, coating it with a thick, foul-smelling sap. John gagged but helped her tug it off, trying not to let the nasty goop get on their books. "Thanks," she said when the plants were at a safe distance, looking down at her sticky hand in fascination. "I wonder if this is what those plants are useful for. What do you think it does?" When she brought her hand up like she was going to smell it or lick it or something, John knocked her hand away.

"Molly, normal people would just call it gross and try to wash off," he said with a laugh. "Don't _eat_ it, for goodness sake. Not everything is an experiment." She rolled her eyes and hurried off to clean up, waving as she went. "See you later," he called after her, following the rest of the crowd away from the greenhouse.

There were some times, though, when Molly didn't make time to talk with him. Sometimes it was because she just had too much work and not enough time, but more often it was because she was scuttling around half a step behind a tall, dark-haired Slytherin second-year. When John asked her about him, she positively beamed. "Oh, that's Sherlock," she exclaimed. "We're good friends, have been for years. Our families live close together, you know, and we're the only magic folk for miles. Yes, we're good friends! You'd like him, I know. I'll introduce you, first chance I get, only he's really busy. You know..." She shrugged, still grinning. John did not say what he was thinking, which was that 'good friends' tended to walk side-by-side, not with one person struggling to keep up as the other person barely acknowledged their presence.

"Yeah, sure," was all he said. "Sounds good." And he kept frowning at Molly's back every time she passed him, half-jogging to keep up with the boy who ignored her attempts to get him to stop and meet John. He didn't like it, and if this Sherlock character messed up, John would make sure he knew. Molly was his friend, and if anyone hurt her, they would learn just how loyal Hufflepuffs could be.


	2. Meetings

When John finally met Molly's friend Sherlock, the tall Slytherin barely spared him a glance. Molly's introduction was overly enthusiastic, like much of what she did. "Sherlock, wait!" She tugged on his shirtsleeve until he slowed and actually turned his head to look at her, one eyebrow raised. "This is my friend, John Watson. John, Sherlock Holmes." She beamed up at Sherlock expectantly.

"Yes," he murmured, returning his nose to a Potions textbook that was clearly more advanced than any second-year should have access to. "Charming. I really must run, Molly." And with that he was gone, turning a corner and striding right through a crowd of fourth-year Gryffindor girls, who scattered and sent scathing looks at his back. John was left with his hand stuck out ready for a shake.

"Charming." John repeated the Slytherin's words, staring with a frown at the corner he'd disappeared around. Molly frowned in disappointment.

"Sorry," she sighed. "He _can _be a bit brusque. He's brilliant, though. I couldn't believe it when I heard he'd been put in Slytherin instead of Ravenclaw. He's brilliant." She scuffed her foot against the stone floor as John put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Well, maybe when he's less... busy." Not that Sherlock Holmes ever looked like he wasn't busy.

Almost a week later, John and Molly headed down to the Great Hall after a long evening of practicing stunning spells for Defense Against the Dark Arts. "I still don't understand," she worried aloud, running her fingers over her wand anxiously. "It's just not my strength, and..."

"You'll get it," John reassured her, clapping a hand on her shoulder. Defense Against the Dark Arts was his favorite class, and Professor Donovan told him he had natural talent. He was proud of that, even if the comment was delivered grudgingly. Molly's talents lied elsewhere, but her diligence kept her marks up in all her classes. "You just need a little more practice. We can - "

But Molly was no longer listening. "Oh, Sherlock's here!" She waved frantically at the lone figure sitting at the end of the Slytherin table, even though he was staring down into a book as always. "Come on, John, let's join him." John glanced around the Great Hall at the very few students who were eating so late, then followed a few steps behind her.

"Yeah, all right then." He sighed.

Molly slid into the seat directly across from Sherlock, and John sat next to her. "Evening!" she chirped, spooning shepherd's pie onto a plate. "John and I were just practicing for Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"John?" He flipped a page in the thick, dusty volume before him.

"John Watson?" Molly's voice was hesitant. "You - you met him the other day."

Half a glance was sent John's way. "Ah, yes." And then another page was flipped.

Molly frowned, poking her shepherd's pie with a fork. "What are you reading, then, Sherlock?"

"Nothing you would understand." The boy's voice was still flat, without a trace of emotion. John scowled as Molly's ears flamed bright red.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to be civil," John snapped. He glared at the curly black hair across from him.

There was a pause, then the textbook snapped shut and piercing blue eyes scanned John from top to bottom. "Fine. Conversation, then. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you. You're a Hufflepuff first year, Muggle-born, bit of a loner. Your father is out of the picture, has been for years, and you claim it doesn't bother you, but I'm sure somewhere deep down it does. A natural defender, I would say - a wonder you aren't in Gryffindor, but I suppose loyalty has as much to do with that as bravery. Yet you aren't close with the other Hufflepuffs; you hang around with Molly, so you don't care as much about what other people think as you probably should. Your taste in -"

"Stop it!" Molly slapped the table, startling John, who'd been staring at Sherlock Holmes in open-mouthed incredulity. "Sherlock, you're being rude! John and I are friends, and you and I are friends -" John thought he saw a flicker at the edge of Sherlock's unsmiling mouth "- and John is right; it _wouldn't _kill you to be kind for once!" She sat back, breathing hard. Although her eyes looked wet, her jaw was set and steady. Sherlock's cold blue eyes met her brown ones.

"Fine." He closed the textbook carefully, maneuvering it so neither Molly nor John could see the cover, and placed it in his bag. "What would be _kind _of me? Shall I ask about how your days have been?"

"That would be nice," Molly answered pointedly. "And for your information, my day has been good." She glanced at John.

"Er - mine as well," he said, thoroughly nonplussed by this strange conversation. "It was good, yeah." They sat in silence for a moment, stirring their food. John's was growing cold. "So, how was yours, then?"

It almost looked like one corner of Sherlock's mouth would twitch up into a smile. "Boring."

"You say that every day," Molly's smile was returning slowly.

"Well, every day is boring," Sherlock drawled. "I can't help it that my answer never changes." He took a large bite of shepherd's pie. "God, that's awful. I'll be right back." Without another word, he shoved back his chair and strode out of the room.

"Where is he going?" John asked, horribly confused. Molly smiled, licking her fork clean.

"No idea," she answered. "But that's how it goes with him. Always has been. He'll be back."

Sure enough, Sherlock reentered the room in dramatic fashion a few moments later. "Here we are," he exclaimed, presenting a platter full of cakes and candies. "Dig in."

"How did you do that?" John asked, reaching for a piece of fudge. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, chewing a mouthful of sweets.

After they had polished off the tray of cakes, the three students exited the Great Hall. Molly, bouncing happily once again, split off and bounded towards the staircase to Ravenclaw Tower, calling good nights behind her. Sherlock and John continued on.

"How did you know all that about me, by the way?" John asked quietly. "Was it like those fake psychics? I mean, I know psychics aren't real - " He broke off as a though occurred to him. "Wait - wizards can't - I mean, they can't read _minds_, can they?" He felt foolish, but Sherlock shrugged as though it were a normal question.

"I'm not a Legilimens, if that's what you're asking." At John's blank look, he rolled his eyes. "Legilimency - that's what you mean. Although 'mind-reading' really is a terrible misrepresentation." John kept his mouth shut, resolving to do more research on that subject later.

At the staircase that led to the Slytherin dungeon, John stopped. After another step or two, so did Sherlock. "Isn't this your common room?" John asked, frowning.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock's face was blank. "And?"

"Well, aren't you going there now?" The question was met with that already-familiar eyebrow raise. "All right, then," John muttered, continuing down the hall until the Hufflepuff staircase appeared. "Well, I'm going here." The eyebrow stayed up. "So - good night, then." He set off down the stairs as Sherlock nodded and kept on his merry way.

It wasn't until he lay in bed that night, replaying every bit of bizarre conversation, that John realized the Slytherin had never answered his question. Sherlock Holmes was a strange character indeed.

John had a surprise when he entered the Potions classroom a few weeks before Christmas. Sherlock Holmes sat in the back row with legs extended and arms crossed, as though he owned the room. He nodded at John as the Hufflepuff first-years filed into the dungeon.

Professor Anderson seemed snippier than usual that morning. He ordered them to begin work - "Page sixty-seven, and if you need help with the instructions, I'd recommend you go back home and relearn how to read." - and stalked to his desk, scratching a quill furiously across a piece of parchment. John pulled out his textbook and flipped to page sixty-seven, then collected ingredients from the cupboard.

"Dreadfully boring, isn't it?" John jumped a foot in the air, nearly slicing the end of his finger along with the dandelion root he was chopping. John was surprised; in the weeks since they had eaten that tray of cakes, Sherlock had ignored him except for an occasional nod of acknowledgement in the hallway,.

"I mean," he answered hesitantly as he resumed slicing his root, "I wouldn't know. I'm usually too worried about messing it up to be bored. They do seem to be rather temperamental."

"Well, of course they are," Sherlock snapped. "It's a _potion,_ John. You need _exact_ measurements and _exact_ preparation if you want them to give you _exact _results." He knocked John's hand away from the cauldron just as he started to add his chopped roots. "_Really_! You'll ruin it - you've skipped the stirring." John rolled his eyes with a scowl, kneeling to collect his roots from where they had scattered across the floor. He piled them onto his desk, pulling his textbook closer to check the instructions. Sure enough, he needed to stir his potion before the roots went in.

Sherlock watched silently as John counted his stirs under his breath. When he'd finished the complex pattern of clockwise and counterclockwise circles and added his roots, the Slytherin nodded. "So what're you doing here, anyway?" John asked, watching his potion fade from murky green to a pale, shimmering blue. "There's no way you're in remedial Potions."

"God, no," Sherlock scoffed. "I _wanted _to attend lessons with the fifth years - they're getting into the really interesting things, you know - but _Anderson _wouldn't hear it. He said I had to prove my _maturity _first, so here I am. He hates me, you know." John felt his ears burn; Sherlock wasn't bothering to keep his voice down. At the front of the room, Professor Anderson looked up from his parchment to glare in their direction.

"But he's your head of house," John muttered, adding his dandelion roots. "Why would he hate you?"

"Well, most people hate me," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John frowned at him. There was no self-pity in the Slytherin's tone, but surely no one could be that cold. "_Anderson_ hates me because I'm smarter than he is. It doesn't help that I've learned more from reading library books than I could ever learn from him." Still he didn't lower his voice. Professor Anderson rose slowly and came towards them. John ducked his head over his book, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"You're not doing well, Holmes." Anderson's voice was steely and cold. "I suggest you leave Mr. Watson alone; if you wish to help your case for attending fifth-year classes, you should find someone who actually needs assistance." He gestured across the dungeons to Hilary Swanson, whose cauldron was belching out clouds of sulfur-yellow smoke. "I suppose you know how she could fix that problem?" He stared icily down at the second-year.

"Obviously." Sherlock's bored expression never wavered as he proceeded to rattle off a string of complex instructions which, based on Anderson's increasing glower, were exactly correct. John resolved to triple-check the instructions for every step to avoid having to make such complicated reparations. As he added the final ingredients and sat back to let his concoction simmer, he pursed his lips. Across the classroom, Sherlock was 'helping' Hilary in a loud and scathing tone that echoed through the room. Anderson did not intervene, even as Hilary's eyes threatened to spill over with tears.

John closed his eyes, considering. Sherlock groaned aloud, knocking a bottle out of Hilary's hand so it rolled across the floor and came to rest at John's feet. The Hufflepuff sighed, groaning inwardly as he reached a finger out and shoved a few leftover slices of dandelion root into his perfectly simmering potion. It congealed instantly and started letting off a thick green fog. Waving the foul-smelling haze away from his face, he leaned down to pick up Hilary's bottle and headed across the dungeons.

"Here you are," he said, placing Hilary's bottle on her desk and pointedly ignoring her welling eyes. By now her potion looked mostly back to normal, but Sherlock continued berating her. "Sherlock, when you get a moment, I could use some help." He stared evenly into the piercing blue eyes, which flickered over to John's cauldron and then rolled slightly.

"Fine. Yours is passable, I suppose," he shot at Hilary. "Come on, John." A girl rushed over to comfort Hilary as soon as Sherlock's back was turned, and the rest of the Hufflepuffs sat stony-faced, glaring daggers at the Slytherin. "More dandelion roots?" Sherlock asked, gazing disdainfully through the green haze. "What, did you think it needed a garnish?"

"My hand slipped," John muttered. Sherlock cracked his knuckles.

"Well, this one will be harder to straighten out," he said, and for the first time since John had met him, his voice sounded almost excited. "John, go to the cupboard. You'll need -" John froze, listening carefully, then rushed to the potions stores, muttering Sherlock's list under his breath. When his arms were loaded, he returned to his cauldron. "You'll need to work quickly," Sherlock said gleefully. "This _is _a challenge. Hurry up, John." The Hufflepuff followed his directions frantically, barely able to keep up as they rattled on and on. Finally, as John painstakingly added a single drop of dittany to his cauldron, he realized Sherlock had fallen silent.

"What now?" he asked, poised to reach for the next ingredient as he looked up at the second-year. Sherlock smiled triumphantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Look at the potion," he beamed. John obeyed, surprised to realize it had returned to its proper shimmery blue. "It's perfect! Good work, John! Good work!" He unfolded his arms, rubbing his hands together. "That _was_ invigorating!"

John felt a grin spreading across his own face. "Thanks, Sherlock." He sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted.

"Any time, John, any time." He clapped loudly, making Professor Anderson jump as he leaned over Hilary Swanson's cauldron. The professor glared over his shoulder, then nodded at Hilary with a tight smile.

"Good work, Miss Swanson." He stood and walked towards John. Sherlock was nearly shaking in anticipation. Anderson glanced down into John's perfectly simmering potion without a smile. "See me after class, Watson." John blinked in surprise. "Dismissed!" Anderson waved his wand and the students' potions vanished. As the rest of the Hufflepuffs filed out, John approached Anderson's desk. He hadn't seen Sherlock exit, but the tall Slytherin was gone as well.

"Er - you wanted to see me, Professor?" John stopped a few feet away from the desk where Anderson stood, facing the back of the room. The professor turned slowly around, shaking his head.

"I saw what you did, Watson." John didn't flinch. He stared unblinkingly at a messy stack of essays on Anderson's desk. "Very... noble of you, _but -_" Anderson paced slightly closer. "Nobility is not always synonymous with wisdom."

"Well, sir," John said quietly, "I'm not in Ravenclaw." Anderson snorted.

"Yes, that's true. And you're not in Slytherin either, and you're not a second-year, so as far as I can tell, it wouldn't be difficult for you to avoid Sherlock Holmes altogether. And _that _is exactly what I would advise you to do. He's bad news, Watson. " John opened his mouth, but the professor raised a hand to cut him off. "Take my advice or leave it," he warned, "but I'll stand behind it. He's bad news." John didn't know what to say. "Dismissed." Anderson waved him towards the door. John headed up the stairs in a state of confusion and paused at the top of the stairs, looking back down towards the dungeon.

"Are you going to do it?" John spun around with a gasp. Sherlock Holmes was mere feet away, leaning against the wall.

"Sorry?" John looked around - where had he come from?

"Are you going to stay away from me? That's what Anderson's just told you to do, isn't it?" The Slytherin's voice was impatient. He frowned down at John, tapping a foot and waiting for an answer. "Well?"

John met his gaze. "No."

"Well then - " the tall boy spun around. "Just as I thought. Tell -" He froze, turning slowly back to John, then spoke more quietly, cautiously. "No?"

"No, I'm not listening to him. Why should I let Anderson tell me what to do? Just because he hates you doesn't mean he can stop the rest of the world from hanging around with you." He shrugged, adjusting the bag slung across his shoulder. Sherlock stared blankly at him. "So - were you planning on getting lunch soon?"

"Lunch?" It was the first time John had seen Sherlock Holmes look confused.

"Lunch. You know, food you eat in the middle of the day?" John felt a corner of his mouth twitch up in an accidental smirk.

"I'm not dense, John," snapped Sherlock, actually reddening for a moment. "Lunch, yes - let's go, then." And he swept off around the corner. John blinked, frozen for a moment. Then he shook his head to clear it and set off towards the Great Hall.


	3. Distance

John's Christmas holiday was uneventful. It was good to be home, he supposed, and yet it felt different. Maybe because the word _home _now conjured up visions of yellow and black Quidditch pennants and cozy fireplaces surrounded with overstuffed armchairs and a crowd of easygoing, smiling faces. He'd brought a pennant home with him to hang in his room - a gift from Edward Hastings, a third-year who'd sort of adopted John when it came to trying to explain Quidditch - but his mother had taken one look at it and paled.

"For what, now?" she had asked with a frown. He hadn't gotten through two sentences of trying to explain the sport before she interrupted him. "Dear, you can't leave that here!" She glanced at the pennant as though scared it would take off flapping about the room. "What if someone sees it? What am I supposed to say to explain it away?"

John looked at the pennant - solid yellow with a black tip and a black _H_ in the middle - and frowned. "I mean, I didn't think it was that strange," he said softly.

"Well, don't you want it with you at school, anyway?" his mother asked with a nervous smile. "Trust me dear, just take it back with you, all right?" She pulled him close to kiss the top of his head, and left him standing there, feeling like a stranger in his own living room.

He spent most of the holiday trying to ignore his sister's pokes and prods. She seemed to think that if he got angry enough, he would show her a bit of magic. "I bet it's all a lie anyway!" she exclaimed at least once a day. "You're not _magical, _Mum's just sent you off somewhere to be rid of you and she's too ashamed to tell me the truth."

"I can do magic!" John yelled once, pushed past his breaking point. "But I can't _now -_ they'll expel me if I do it outside of school!" Harry rolled her eyes, smirking in pleasure that she'd finally got the rise she was looking for.

"Oh, is that it?" she scoffed. "Or maybe Mum's had you sent off to a loony bin and we're all just supposed to play along with your delusions. That's more likely. Hogwiggles Loony Bin." She smirked.

"It's Hogwarts," John muttered angrily.

"What's that, Loony-Loo?"

"HOGWARTS!" he bellowed, clenching his fists. "And it isn't a _loony _bin; you're just jealous that you - "

"John _Hamish_ Watson!" Their mother stormed into the room. "Keep your voice down! Have you forgotten we have neighbors? What if they hear you talking about that - about any of this? Try to act, well -" she hesitated, looking uncertain, "-well, normal, dear - would you please? You'll be back at that school soon enough, but for now, just be a normal boy. Not a wizard." Her eyes were wide and distraught, mouth twisted into half a frown. John could do nothing but nod. "Thank you, Love. Come on, Harry - stop bothering him, would you?" And John was left alone, sitting on his bed and staring at the crumpled corner of the Hufflepuff pennant sticking out of his trunk.

Slowly, he got off the bed and opened the trunk, shifting the pennant so none of it stuck out the crack; when he shut the lid it was completely hidden, along with his wand and a few books he'd brought along for homework and reading. He thought of the chocolate frog he'd brought Harry for Christmas and wondered if he should go and get it from under the tree and hide it, too.

After a few moments, he scowled and reopened the trunk. Rifling through the messy contents, he came up with a copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ that Edward Hastings had lent him. He propped the yellow pennant up in the lid of the open trunk and settled into his bed. If he was ever going to understand the most popular wizarding sport, he couldn't take a holiday off. He wondered how long it would take his mum to stop worrying so much.

"It was a disaster," John told Molly in a pained undertone, head propped on one hand. "You should have seen the looks on both their faces."

"They didn't like it?" Molly frowned.

"Harry _screamed,_" he moaned. "Molly, in the Muggle world, sweets don't hop around."

"Well, it's not like all sweets hop around. They're _frogs, _what else would they do?"

"Molly, Muggle sweets don't move at all. They're just - they're just sweets. They just sit there." He couldn't believe he was having to explain this to someone. "She ripped it open before I could warn her, and of course the frog leapt out, and - Molly, it was awful! They were yelling, and I was chasing the frog, and just when I'd explained it away, my mum picked up the card, and- "

"Oh, the card's the best part," she chirped merrily. "Who'd she get? I hope it was good, her first one."

The ancient librarian swooped over to their table, shushing them loudly. They ducked their heads and continued their conversations in whispers.

John was exasperated. "Molly, you don't understand. She wasn't exactly happy to see the card."

"But why?" Molly hissed with a frown.

"Honestly, Molly." John jumped as Sherlock Holmes appeared next to him. The Slytherin pulled out the chair next to Molly with a loud scrape and flopped into it. "Muggle photos don't move." She opened her mouth, looking frustrated. "No - not at all. They sit there in the frame, and you can poke them and prod them and scream at them all you want, but they won't move." Molly's eyes widened, and she drew in an eager breath. "No, the portraits don't move either," Sherlock interrupted. John nodded, grinning at Molly's obvious awe.

"Holmes!" hissed Madam Pince, coming up behind him. "I've warned you a thousand times that if you do not keep your voice down, I will have you banned from this library." Sherlock rolled his eyes, raising a hand in acknowledgement, and the librarian swept away.

"What's even the point?" Molly mused, looking distraught.

John rolled his eyes. "They're still pictures, Molly. They just don't move. So you can imagine my mum's surprise when she picks up the card from the floor and there's Harry-_freaking_-Potter waving up at her. And then he walks right out of the frame, like they do, you know, and I thought she was going to cry. I ruined Christmas Day." He let his head fall to the table.

"Ashamed of you, I suppose?" Sherlock's voice was barely a fraction lower than before. At Molly's confused look, he sighed. "Do you think John's mum enjoys having a wizard in the family? Distrust and fear run both ways, you know. Honestly, Muggle Studies should be a required course. They are fascinating people."

John frowned. "That's my family you're talking about."

"I called them 'fascinating people,'" Sherlock sniffed, "which is better than what I'd say about _my _family." He cracked a crooked grin. "Anyway, I'm sure by the time term is over, they'll be glad to see you again. Which, again, is more than I could say about my own parents."

"Sherlock!" hissed Molly. "Don't be horrible. You know your parents are always happy you're home. And Mycroft -"

Sherlock snorted. Loudly. "Give it up, Molly. Don't bother trying to defend Mycroft."

"Mycroft?" John frowned. "That Ravenclaw prefect - he's your brother?"

"Unfortunate but true." Sherlock reached up to one of the shelves behind his head and pulled out a moldy volume at random. Puffs of dust rose up with every page he turned.

"What's that?" Molly asked, craning her neck to see.

"No idea, as it's written in Aramaic. I'll have to learn it," he added offhandedly. John shot a glance at Molly, who mouthed _brilliant _back at him, raising her eyebrows dramatically. Sherlock slammed the book shut, sending up a swirl of decades-old dust. John and Molly leaned back, waving it away.

"Out!" Madam Pince shrieked, loudly for a woman of her age. Moving surprisingly quickly, she snatched the book from in front of Sherlock and clutched it to her chest. "No respect for old books! No respect for me! No respect for _silence in the library_!" John leapt to his feet, grabbing his bag and sprinting after Molly out of the library. Even Sherlock was running, ducking his head to avoid a swat from Madam Pince's fist.

"Old bat," Sherlock muttered, running both hands over his curly black hair. Molly squeaked. John laughed.

It wasn't halfway through the term before Sherlock had learned Aramaic - or so he claimed. He insisted on reading aloud from the dusty volume he had checked out from the library, seeming to think that if John and Molly heard the strange syllables enough, they would pick up on the language too. Molly was not amused.

"I can_ not _study with that noise!" she exclaimed one afternoon, slamming her Charms book shut and shoving it into her bag. She stood, shoving her chair back as John stared and Sherlock looked on passively. Molly bit her lip, her voice terse. "I heard a rumor there's a test on these Levitation Charms, and I can't make it work even half the time." She hesitated a moment, then spun around and scurried to the door. "Good night!"

"So dramatic," Sherlock drawled, returning to his Aramaic studies. "She's done it correctly the last five times she tried." John nodded, surprised. Sherlock hadn't looked up from his book the entire time they had been studying in the third-floor classroom. He certainly hadn't given any indication that he had taken notice of John and Molly's practicing.

"Well, you know Molly," John shrugged. "She won't stop until it's perfect every time and then some."

"She tries too hard," Sherlock said calmly, flipping a page. "God, this is boring." He chanted a few words in rhythm, flicking his wand so that purple and red sparks fizzed out of its tip. John scooted farther away from the shower of embers. "Worthless spells," Sherlock muttered, flipping through several pages with a tight frown. "All aesthetic, nothing practical. And there's an error!" He stopped his flipping and grabbed a quill to scribble furiously in the ancient volume.

"Are you sure you should..." John's voice trailed off; it was too late to save the book. "Are you sure it's an error? You just started learning Aramaic what - a few months ago?" The look the Slytherin sent him could have wilted Professor Longbottom's whole collection of plants.

"It's an error," he answered flatly. "I've _made _this potion before, and it requires three grains of powdered octopus, not mushroom spores - which is what this _fine_ piece of literature insists upon." He finished his corrections with a stab of his quill, and John sighed.

After a few moments of silence, John ventured a change of subject. "Have you ever wondered how they turn the octopus to powder?" Sherlock blinked at him.

"You, know?" he said slowly, "I haven't." To John's utter bewilderment, the Slytherin shut his book, shoved it in his bag, and leapt to his feet. "I will find out. Thank you, John." And with that, he strode purposefully out of the room.

John was left staring blankly at the classroom door. "For what?" he asked loudly, knowing nobody was left to hear his question.

John was laughing at one of Eddie Hastings' stories several days later when a loud voice piped up behind him. "The Reductor curse!" John turned with the rest of the Hufflepuffs to stare at Sherlock, who stood next to their table proudly. "The Reductor curse, John," he repeated emphatically. John shook his head slowly as his ears reddened.

"Sorry, but I've missed something." The other Hufflepuffs were turning back to their plates, scoffing under their breath at the audacity and strangeness of this Slytherin second-year. John noticed Sherlock's gaze flick towards a particularly nasty giggle directed his way. "What about the Reductor curse?"

Sherlock looked, to John's surprise, a little hurt. "Powdered octopus," he said in quiet exasperation. John remained clueless. "You asked how they made the octopus into powder." Sherlock's voice rose a bit. "I found out." He looked at John expectantly, so the Hufflepuff nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging way. "They take it - the octopus - and slice it into thin pieces. It's the tentacles they use, mainly; other parts have better uses. The eyes are apparently very important, so they _scoop _those out to begin with." This fact was accompanied with a descriptive hand gesture. Next to John, Eddie dropped his spoon onto the table with a loud clang. Sherlock didn't pause. "The slices are dried out, and then they use the Reductor curse to make the dried bits into a fine powder. It's quite interesting, really. Thank you for the puzzle." He grinned proudly at John.

"Er - no problem," John answered with a hesitant half-smile. "Thanks for the answer."

"Anytime." Sherlock nodded and spun around, heading back to his usual end spot at the Slytherin table. Eddie watched him go with a skeptical sneer.

"Hanging around with him now?" John shrugged, picking at his food. "You know, there's plenty of Hufflepuffs to be friends with."

"I know." Across the Great Hall, Molly Hooper rose from the Ravenclaw table and promptly tripped over the end of her trailing scarf. John couldn't hold in a laugh as she stumbled into a passing Gryffindor and gestured wildly in accompaniment to her enthusiastic apology. Eddie followed his gaze and rolled his eyes.

"Come on, Watson; stick with us." He took John's arm and led him out of the Great Hall. "So did I ever tell you about the time I played Quidditch in an enchanted blizzard? Yeah, my mum had a bit to much to drink, you know, and messed up a spell - she was trying to get a little snow for Christmas, but she went a little overboard. Anyway -" By the time they reached their common room, John's cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing, and there was nothing he wanted more than to settle into the cushions of an overstuffed chair and sip hot chocolate while listening to the other Hufflepuff's cheerful conversations and jokes.

John found himself unconsciously following Eddie's advice during the last few weeks of the term. It wasn't so much that he started avoiding Molly and Sherlock; rather, they just never seemed to be around anymore, and he didn't search them out. Examinations were coming up soon, and the amount of homework seemed like it had tripled, and suddenly it just made more sense to spread his books over the carpeting in the common room instead of hunting down Molly, Sherlock, and an empty classroom. He still greeted Molly in the corridors, and it was clear that she had no time for anything other than studying. John squashed his uneasy, guilty feelings by telling himself that she wouldn't want him distracting her, anyway.

He greeted Sherlock in the corridors, too, but the Slytherin's response was really more of an acknowledgement than a true greeting in return. He missed seeing Sherlock in Potions class, but the second-year had been removed from the class after directing one too many sarcastic outbursts at Anderson. As far as John could tell from passing glimpses, Sherlock wasn't taking his banishment too hard. He seemed to have doubled his time spent in the library, and from the look of the books he was poring over, he wasn't studying for his exams.

John did quite literally run into Sherlock on the Hogwarts Express as it was heading back to London. Everyone was in high spirits, with exams over and the summer holiday just about to begin, and John was rushing back to the compartment he was sharing with a few Hufflepuff classmates when he crashed into the Slytherin. They both tumbled to the floor, glass doors sliding open so other students could peer down at them.

"Sorry," John muttered, grabbing Sherlock's bag for him. "My fault."

Sherlock shrugged, brushing some dirt from his sleeve. "Both in a hurry. It happens." He took his bag, nodding at John before hurrying back on his way. John frowned.

"Sherlock!" The second-year turned slowly around. "Are you sitting with anyone? I have a compartment with -"

"No thanks, John. I've got some really interesting reading I want to start on." He thumped his bag. "Here's hoping Madam Pince doesn't do inventory over the summer."

"You stole library books?" John grinned. "You've got to be the only person who would -" A group of rowdy Gryffindor boys barged through, interrupting him. "Well, if you're sure you don't want to sit with -"

"No." Sherlock smiled tersely. "I'll be off, then." Again, he nodded and strode away. John frowned at his back.

"Have a good summer, then," he said loudly. Sherlock raised a hand in acknowledgement.

"Do the same," he called over his shoulder. "See you next term." And he was gone before John could respond.

"See you next term," he said to the empty aisle. Then, shaking his head, he headed back to rejoin the Hufflepuffs.


	4. Attacks

_Author's Note: So sorry it's been so long since this story was updated. I'm very busy with university. It is a long chapter, so I hope that makes up for it. Also, I would love any reviews and/or tips you would like to give me!_

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John's mum was almost as eager for his return to school as John was himself. She walked him to the platform again, helping him with his baggage, and stopped at the ninth platform. "Well, have a good year, love," she said with a half-smile. "I know you're ready to be back."

It was true. John had even started reading ahead in the textbooks he'd picked up on a daytrip to Diagon Alley; he missed magic that much. "It's been good being home, though," he said, trying to make her feel better.

"Well, I'm sure you -" She was interrupted by a loud shout.

"John! John!" He turned around to see Molly Hooper waving excitedly as she tried to steer an overburdened luggage cart with one hand. Balanced on the top of her bags was an open cardboard box with a small gray kitten poking its head out of the top. John glanced back to see his mother's mouth hanging open. "John, how are you? How was your summer? I hope it was excellent! Are you ready to go back to school?" She threw her arms around him, and he stood stiffly and glanced around in panic. He wasn't used to girls clinging to him like this.

"Er - hi, Molly. Good to see you." Finally, she let him go and hopped back, still beaming widely.

"Is this your mum?" she asked, sticking a hand out to Mrs. Watson. "I'm Molly Hooper. It's so nice to meet you." John's mother shook the proffered hand cautiously, then glanced at her watch.

"Well, I expect you two will want to get seats," she said, clearly flustered as she glanced at the kitten, which was trying to clamber out of its box and attracting some attention from nearby Muggles. "Go on, then." She gave John a last quick hug and nodded to Molly, then set off away through King's Cross.

"She's not coming through?" Molly asked as they started towards the brick wall separating them from the Hogwarts platform.

"It makes her nervous," John explained. "And she didn't want to watch me do it, either. Where are your parents?" He closed his eyes as they met the bricks, but of course it was as if the wall wasn't even there. Molly scooped up her kitten and they left their luggage with the porters and went to get on the train.

"Working," she said, rolling her eyes. "They're both in the Ministry, you know. It's been busy all summer; I hardly saw them at all."

They found seats easily enough, and after a few minutes of catching up they were joined by a couple of older Ravenclaws. Molly beamed at them, like she beamed at everybody, and greeted one of the girls by name. The Ravenclaws sat in a tight group, speaking quietly, as Molly turned back to John. He listened to her stories, glancing over to the fifth- and sixth-years across the car.

During a lull in Molly's storytelling, John cut in. "So you know them?" He spoke softly, nodding at their neighbors as he leaned over to rub the kitten's head. It butted at his finger, purring loudly. Molly frowned at him as though she thought he was dense.

"Well, they're in my house. I don't know them well. Why?" The kitten leapt from her lap to John's, and she let out a squeak of surprise. John caught the fuzzy thing and held it in one hand, rubbing under its chin.

"Just wondering. Who's the one with glasses?" John glanced across the compartment. The boy with glasses seemed to be the leader of the group. The others looked to him at breaks in the conversation and to get cues to laugh. It was a subtle dynamic, but it struck John as odd.

"Charles Magnussen," she whispered, frowning. "Can we do this later? When they're not _right there_?" She widened her eyes meaningfully, and he nodded. They sat in silence a few moments, playing with the kitten.

"So, er, who is this fellow?"

Molly cooed. "Well, she's no fellow. Her name's Doris. Isn't she lovely? My dad -" Doris's life story was interrupted by a crash. Something slammed against the door of their train car. Molly gasped, and the Ravenclaws across the car looked towards the noise.

"A fight," one of the girls said. "Do you need to go sort it out, Charles? She reached out to touch his prefect's badge coyly. Magnussen smiled coldly.

"I'm sure it's nothing that won't straighten itself out." John's mouth dropped open. What was the point of prefects, if they wouldn't even step in to break up a fight? He stood and deposited Doris into Molly's lap. Striding to the door, he flung it open just in time for someone to fall through it, propelled by the force of a punch. John caught him, staggering under the sudden weight.

"Sherlock!" Molly was as pale as a ghost, but she leapt up and helped John drag their friend's limp frame to their seats. John looked over his shoulder, but Sherlock's attackers had already fled. "Charles, what do we do?" The prefect stood, looking slightly cross.

"I'll get someone." He left the car, in no hurry whatsoever. John scowled, turning back to Sherlock. Molly was already dabbing at some of his cuts with a shaky hand. When she pressed at the corner of his split lip, Sherlock jerked and groaned softly. John caught Molly's hand.

"Watch out; this looks broken." John traced the swollen, already bruised line of Sherlock's jaw. Molly whimpered. John looked around. "Where did that prefect _go_?"

The door flew open and several prefects rushed into the car. Magnussen brought up the rear, standing back while the others gathered around the injured boy. John recognized one of them as Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft frowned deeply as he leaned over his brother. "I'm surprised; Sherlock can usually handle himself. Did anyone see who did this?" John shook his head angrily. Mycroft straightened up with a sigh. "Well, we're nearly at the school. Lestrade, send an owl ahead of us and tell them we'll need Madam Pomfrey. There's nothing we can do for him here." A prefect in Gryffindor colors nodded and left the car briskly.

The rest of the train ride was spent in silence. Magnussen and the other Ravenclaws left the compartment, John and Molly sat looking down at Sherlock, and Mycroft gazed out the window at the passing scenery. When they finally reached Hogsmeade Station, the four of them were rushed into the first horseless carriage and reached the castle well ahead of the rest of the students. Madam Pomfrey, Headmistress McGonagall, and Professor Anderson were waiting for them.

John's head was spinning from all of the questions by the time he and Molly were released from McGonagall's office. Sherlock was taken up to the hospital wing, although Madam Pomfrey assured them he'd be in perfect health by morning. When he and Molly had assured the headmistress that they had no information, they were sent off to the feast. The Great Hall was buzzing with excitement.

"Did you hear?" Eddie asked John before he had even reached the table. Eddie pushed gently at a tiny new first-year until the girl scooted over to make enough room for John.

"Hear? I was there; where do you think I've been just now?" He helped himself to the dishes that covered the table, trying to keep his voice from becoming too cross.

"No, I mean about who _did _it." John looked up immediately, and Eddie continued before he could even voice his question. "Two seventh-years - a Ravenclaw and a Slytherin. They ran right through the next car after they beat him up, so it wasn't hard to figure out who did it. Not very smart, was it? They've already been expelled, of course. I bet they'll stand trial, too; the Holmes family has connections, and lots of them, at that." Eddie licked his spoon clean, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"Seventh-years?" John asked, dumbfounded. "And in different houses? What would they want with Sherlock?"

Eddie snorted. "Oh, please. You honestly believe there's a person in this school he hasn't insulted? Well, there's the new first-years, but give him a week and they'll all want him beaten, too." John scowled.

"Getting mad at someone and beating them up aren't exactly the same thing," he pointed out. "And you'd think a couple seventh-years would be patient enough, knowing they're nearly done with school."

Eddie shrugged. "Well, ask him when he wakes up, would you? I want to know just what he said to them, to deserve that." He stood up, ignoring John's furious gasp of breath. "Prefects are getting up. I'm going to beat the rush of firsties to the common room." John gulped down a few last bites of supper, then joined the crowd leaving the Great Hall. He waved off the Hufflepuffs who swarmed him in the common room, hoping for gossip about the events on the train.

"I'm too tired; no, I don't want to talk about - stop it, okay!" He shook his arm free of a fifth-year's grip and stomped into his dormitory. Flopping onto his bed, he sighed. The year was not starting out quite like he had hoped.

Sure enough, Sherlock was up and running the very next day, and after a few weeks, everything was back to normal. The other students stopped pitying him after a few of the usual cutting remarks and returned to treating Sherlock as an unpleasant yet inevitable part of life. Sherlock, to John's surprise, had no idea why the two seventh-years would want to beat him up. Unsurprisingly, not knowing was driving him mad.

"I've never spoken to either one of them in my life," he exclaimed loudly one day when he and John and Molly were studying in a third-floor classroom. "It makes no sense! Something is missing!"

John sighed, used to these outbursts. This conversation had been replayed over and over in the past month, even as rumors about supposed motives became few and far between. "Maybe it was just a random thing," John suggested. "I mean, there are bullies everywhere. My sister used to come home with black eyes from this one girl -"

"No, he's right!" Molly exclaimed, shutting a book gently. Interrupting was very unlike her, and John noticed she looked tired and sad. "It doesn't make sense! Roberta Bennett was so _nice_. None of us Ravenclaws can understand why she would do something like..." She trailed off. "It's just so strange. I guess you never really know people." John frowned.

"Well, she can't have been _that _nice, can she?" he asked cautiously. "I mean, if she just turned around - before the school year even started, mind you - and attacked a third-year?" Molly scowled.

"That's what I'm saying. It makes no sense." John nodded silently, but thought privately that Molly needed to work on judging people. Sometimes assuming the best was not the smartest thing to do.

"Well, I'm off," John announced, shoving books into his bag as he stood. Molly waved a hand at him, already engrossed back into her studies. Sherlock even nodded goodbye. John stepped out the door, closed it behind him, and turned towards the staircase. Before he had even taken a step, however, there was a deafening bang and a jet of blue light streaked past his ear, illuminating the dark hallway and sending a searing pain across the side of his head.

John cried out, ducking forward and clapping a hand to his head. As he stumbled, scrabbling about in his pocket for his wand, his foot slipped over the edge of the first step, and then he was tumbling down flights of stairs. His world was a spiraling, jarring series of bounces on stone, and all he could think was that he would roll off the side of the staircase or through a trick stair, and who would find his body the next morning.

It felt like he fell forever until he was able to stick out an arm and catch hold of a railing to stop his fall. He lay there, sprawled across the stairs and unsure of which way was up. His head was spinning and he was too rattled to move, but through the ringing in his ears he could barely hear Molly calling his name.

"John! John! Oh God! Sherlock, he's fallen!" The stairs shook with her footsteps as she raised towards him. "Are you okay? What happened? Oh God, blood!" He slowly moved the hand closest to his head and felt a sticky pool of liquid above his ear. He tried to sit up, or raise his head, or maybe just to speak, but a wave of intense dizziness rushed over him and he fell back.

Molly reached him, scrabbling to a halt and dropping to her knees to lean over him. "It's okay, it's okay," she repeated under her breath. She looked frantically around, spying a scarf peeking out of John's schoolbag. "Oh, I'm sorry about the scarf. We'll _scourgify_ it later." She dabbed the fabric against John's head. "It'll be okay. It's okay. We need a teacher." She turned to peer up the stairs. "Sherlock! We need a teacher!" Then she turned back to John. "How do you feel? It's not so bad. Can you speak? It'll be okay."

_Shut up, _John thought through the swirling fog in his head. He closed his eyes to try and stop the world spinning, but somehow even with them tightly shut he could tell it hadn't worked. He didn't try to answer Molly, scared the bile rising in his throat would escape.

"Sherlock!" Molly screamed. "What are you doing? Help me!" Footsteps pounded closer on the third floor, and Sherlock came into view.

"I couldn't find anyone up there," he gasped, launching himself down the stairs. "Why aren't you-" He broke off, cursing as he saw Molly and John.

"He hasn't answered me yet," Molly cried. "I think he's awake, but he's not even moving. Where are all the _bloody _teachers?" Her voice rose with every word, getting closer and closer to hysteria.

"Keep pressure on the wound," Sherlock ordered. "Stay calm, Molly, and I'll be back." He launched himself over the railing of the stairway and took off at a sprint.

Molly continued her panicked murmurs, and John kept on praying that the world wasn't just going to spin right out from under him, until Sherlock returned at the same pace at which he left. He came to a stop next to them, clinging to the rail as he gasped for breath. "Well?" Molly demanded, "where's the teacher?" Sherlock just pointed, too winded to speak, and sure enough more footsteps were approaching on the first floor.

"Move, move now! Let us in!" Professor Longbottom leaned over John, gently teasing one of his eyelids farther open. "John, can you hear me?" The professor's face swam double or triple across John's vision. "Hospital wing, as quickly and carefully as possible. Molly, run up there now and tell Madam Pomfrey that we're on our way. And ask her to give you something calming." Pale and shaking, she obeyed. "Sherlock, help me here, would you?" He waved his wand so that a pad of gauze appeared and pressed itself against the wound on John's head.

Soon John was floating on a conjured stretcher, trying to lie as still as possible as the stretcher bobbed gently up and down through the corridors. He clutched feebly at the sides of the stretcher, but it didn't help. "Almost there, John," Professor Longbottom murmured. Sherlock jogged ahead to tug the door of the hospital wing open.

By the time Professor Donovan, John's Head of House, and the headmistress arrived, Madam Pomfrey had John in a bed and back to a more permanent state of consciousness. Most of the fog was gone from his head and the room around him appeared to at least be fixed in place.

"Concussion, broken rib, laceration across the temple, he'll have bruises everywhere for a week," Madam Pomfrey kept up an angry mutter as she bustled about the room.

"Thank you, Poppy," Professor McGonagall said gently. "We'll be speaking to John now, if that's all right." Madam Pomfrey scowled.

"Just for a while. If anyone ever needed rest, he does." The headmistress nodded.

"Just tell us what happened, Mister Watson," she urged quietly. John cleared his throat and recounted what he could remember.

"I'd just left the room where we were studying," he said, squinting through the headache that was beginning behind his eyes. "There was a bang right after I closed the door, and a flash of light - I think it was blue - that went right by my head. And I guess it knocked me down, or I fell, and went down the stairs. I never saw anyone, though. Sorry."

"Don't apologize, Watson," Professor Donovan snapped. John winced.

"Shh, Sally," Professor McGonagall warned. She turned to Molly and Sherlock. "And you two? Did you see or hear anything different?"

"Not - not really," Molly whispered. She clutched a mug of steaming hot chocolate. "We heard the bang he just mentioned and went to see what happened - well, Sherlock went looking, and I went to John."

"I didn't see anything," Sherlock said. "I looked all along the east side, but no one was there. I didn't realize John was so hurt - I would have gone for Professor Longbottom sooner."

"Well, it's all right now." Professor McGonagall sighed. "It is disappointing that no one saw anything, but it can't be helped. Rest up, John. And you lot," she added, turning to Sherlock and Molly, "walk with us, please. Professor Longbottom, escort Miss Hooper to her dormitory, please. I will walk Mister Holmes to his." Professor Longbottom nodded.

The whole group stood and Madam Pomfrey led them out and extinguished the lamps with a wave of her wand. John lay alone in the dark, head spinning for a whole different reason than before. Nothing made sense. He was at _school, _after all. People don't just get attacked walking down a corridor at _school._ Not at normal schools. His eyelids drifted shut of their own accord and he fell into a deep, potion-induced sleep.


End file.
